Yang Ke is a contemporary Chinese poet, known for his consistent highly personalised style of historical imagination and pursuit of truth. His urban poetry marks, in a certain sense, the emergence of subjectivity in Chinese poetic expression.
He has published 13 poetry collections in Chinese—including _Yang Ke’s Poems_, _Related and Unrelated_, and _I Saw My Country Inside a Pomegranate_—along with 4 collections of prose essays and 1 anthology, through presses such as People’s Literature Publishing House and Taiwan Huapin Wenchuang Co.Ltd. His works have also been translated into 10 foreign-language collections, including _Two Halves of the World Apple_ and _A Journey Without Destination_, published by the University of Oklahoma Press (USA), Cambridge River Press (UK), and publishers in Romania, Sweden, Spain, among others.
He is the editor-in-chief of _Chinese New Poetry Yearbook(1998–2019)_ and has received more than a dozen literary awards from mainland China, Taiwan, and abroad, including the Francesco Giampietri International Literary Prize (Italy) and the Cambridge Xu Zhimo Poetry Award (UK). Yang Ke currently serves as a Presidium Member of the China Writers Association, President of the Chinese Poetry Society, and Research Fellow at the Poetry Institute of Peking University.
I Came across a Small Rice Field in Dongguan
Between the toes of factories
short-stemmed rice plants
clutch at the last bit of dirt
Their root-anchors
uncurl tiredly
Outraged hands wanting to scratch
birdsong and cricket call from the mud
In a patch of gleaming sunlight
I saw rice-plant leaves
shrug like shrugged shoulders
The spikes of rice grew quickly
The grains were in milk They smiled faintly in the summer breeze
talking to me
All of a sudden, emerging from the deafening, impulsive ocean/oceanic din of notions**
I wrung myself dry
like a white shirt
Yesterday, I would never have guessed
that in Dongguan
I could have come across a small field of rice
The yellow-green spikes
continued to sway
through moments both happy and sad
May 2001
Tr. by Simon Patten
Summer Time Change
Ahead of time trains depart
Girls mature
Ahead of time candles are blown out
That adorn their birthday cakes
And in a well-schemed murder
A knife goes in white
And comes out red
Ahead of time
Yet chicks refuse to crack their shell
The moon fails to light the sky
At nightfall
Yet a realist writer jogging in the morning street
Has been killed by the first bus
Which was running off schedule
So black humor and the absurdist school
Can at last be understood
And the guy going for a date in the old place
At the old time has met another girl
The deceased—having just been cremated—
Has the wrong time listed on his certificate
And men stand bewildered over the theft
Of an hour of sun and air
Is time fair?
1989
Tr. by Cao Sheng & David Axelrod
Silverback
( To Judyth Nsababera)
In Uganda,
the silverback’s back,
like a blade hidden in the wooden drum,
slices through the scorching, soaked savannah.
Under the equator’s burning copper,
the leaves of Bwindi brush it,
it beats its chest —
a body forged in iron,
striking ancient, echoing thuds,
and birds shatter into stars.
The silver glint on its spine,
like dawn cracking,
pulls the far-off hills down to silence.
In Guangzhou’s crowded streets, Judith Sambabera,
smiling, her eyes and the silver flicker,
like the King, firm and gentle.
Her gaze and his meet,
quietly swaying,
gentle, but with sharp edges.
A balance of strength and softness,
Of might and beauty,
the Kong’s chest,
every muscle a thick slab of power,
while her eyes,
like waves across a lake,
still the whole world —
just for a moment.
translated by Weina Dai (翻译：戴潍娜)
February 10, 2025.
Six-dimensional Space
Before the galaxy’s genesis
We lived in merely three-dimensional space
Like floating motes of dust
A circle is drawn around the horizon,
And those who walk in the middle
Circulate tens of thousands of volumes of poetry;
Cultivate the treadmarks of the wheels of language
Enter the two-dimensional dreamland
Where still scenes slowly float
Dark matter flies through space
Creating a multitude of interfaces with the cubic world
High technology flies into space
Making new starting points with prehistoric powers
Four-dimension space has been pierced but
Has one more time axis;
The spiritual screw, has something to do with the distortion of power
Outside is another, parallel, universe
Or superimposed unlimited starry sky
When divine consciousness has evolved with the ability control the human mind
All things on earth instantly
Open the valves of the tunnels of time and space
Shuttle between the past and the future
Six-dimensional space exists in the movement of time
It seems to be entering the energy room of space
The axes of coordinates suddenly disappear
The hidden super chords are playing
The symbols beyond alignment, until the symbols change
Is there time outside time, beyond black holes?
17.05.2021
Translator: Lu Wenyan, Emma Nortfods
Who Can Tell Me the Postcode of Shimao
As I enter Yindu, I want to write to a beautiful girl there.
There was no written language over 2,400 years ago,
Even the oracle poems cannot carve my deep love.
She was in Shimao on the eve of civilisation,
When the ruins were not yet ruins
Were there any orangutan longcalls from inner Weng City posting to outer Weng City?
Going through ancient maps, all the words were rare
Like code. It did not matter if she did not understand
Like myself, now I cannot understand these colourful painted geometric patterns
There are 48 skulls, most of them were sacrificed teenage girls
Were they the beautiful girl’s sisters, or her great, great grandmother?
At that time, everything was shadowy, hidden in cloud and fog,
Even the legend Shen Gongbao, a thousand years later
Had a leopardine forehead and truthful, round eyes, so it was not hearsay.
The wind blew away the naked yellow earth
And at once a lone city appeared
The wide stone path leads to the city control tower, I avoid the wooden structures
On the stone walls, I walk into her stone-paved courtyard and
Leave from its front gate. It is China, The Middle Kingdom, The Divine Land
Before Christ, even before the invention of written language
Whether she was the ancestor of the Oracle or the Book of Poetry
Or the barbarians who emigrated and vanished
I posted my letter to Weng City, where the dynasties pursued their easy prey
The stone sculptures and jade figurines all have high noses and deep-set eyes
I arrived in Shenmu, Shanxi, but could never
Arrive in her Shimao. The undulations of the landscape
Imply psychological continuity,
But it does not matter whether I post the letter or not.
Shimao has always been there, but perhaps she is only in my dreams.
04.06.2021
Translator: Lu Wenyan, Emma Nortfods
译者：陆文艳, 艾玛·诺芙德
2021.06.04
Chinese People
Those migrant workers who have to demand their wages.
148 pairs of battered hands
held out from Daqing’s caved-in mine.
Li Aiye, who caught AIDS after giving blood.
The shepherd bachelors of the loess slopes.
Gossipy women licking a finger to count money.
Hair salon girls: unlicensed sex-workers.
Peddlers engaged in a running battle with city authorities.
Old bosses
in need of a sauna.
The 9 to 5 tribe off to work on their bicycles.
Good-for-nothings with no where to go and nothing to do.
The bar-room wasters. Old men
sipping tea as they pet songbirds.
Scholars who fill the heads of their listeners with fog.
Derros, punters, porters stinking to high heaven;
dandies, beggars, doctors, secretaries (and secret mistresses into the bargain);
workplace clowns
and other supporting actors.
From the Avenue of Heavenly Peace to the Guangzhou Road
I have yet to see “the Chinese people” this winter;
I’ve seen ordinary, speaking bodies
keeping each other warm
on buses day after day.
They’re like grimy coins:
their users hand them over frowning
to society.
2004
Tr. by Simon Patten
Self-Portrait, 1967
a happy “sonofabitch”[1] crossing the street
I was ten that year, had never ever seen a bare wall
green army uniforms made the summer exciting
I scampered in and out of the language of debate
learning how to read from political posters
my sensitive snout picking up the smell of burning
the sun was blistering that summer of raging slogans
a sonofabitch crossing through a revolutionary storm
classrooms empt-empt-empty
a “sonofabitch” crossing through a whizz of bullets
finally charging up onto the muzzle of a gun
more thrilled than I’d ever been, I had no idea what death was in my tenth summer
I felt like I was living in a movie
and had caught up with the life and times of the heroic Pavel Korchagin [2]
when I care-carefully picked up a bullet off the ground
what my fingers touched was only the start of the nightmare
in 1967 I saw faces vanishing into thin air with my own eyes
a jittery little “sonofabitch” crossing the street
and running as fast as it could from the scenes of 1967
[1] The word gouzaizi, translated above as “sonofabitch,” literally means “dog-spawn.” During the Cultural Revolution (1966-1976), this term was used to refer to the children of parents classified as landlords, rich peasants, anti-revolutionaries, convicted prisoners and so-called “Rightists” (intellectuals who had criticized the Chinese Communist Party).—Tr.
[2] Pavel Korchagin is the worker-hero of the novel How the Steel Was Tempered by Nikolai Ostrovsky. The book was extremely popular in China (millions were sold) and was recently made into a television series.—Tr.
March 7, 1994
Tr. by Simon Patton
A Kapok Tree, Backlit at Sunset
Tree of dreams as the expanse behind it sinks into twilight
Its backlit shape takes on a special clarity
There is a hint of swaying in its living upper limbs
For whom this loveliness these eye-catching pastel lines?
Overflow of lingering beauty radiates into the air
Telling its tale of survival as far as light reaches
In this moment’s cataclysm of the spirit
Enveloped in an aura of nobility
A tree toward which we lean admiringly
On the point of crawling in supplication
Whose hand is turning down the sun’s lamp-wick?
Only its flames are still leaping
Blossom of desire this season’s invisible flower
Being blown toward high places by the final passion
My soul flies on the branch tips
As gloom closes in all living things sink into it
In the scenery of the spirit
The silhouette one presents means everything
Written in 30th of November, 1994
Translated by Denis Mair
How to Mend the Holes in this World
The world is like an old garment
Torn apart into pieces
Civilization burns on the blade
Missiles pass through torn clouds
Bullet craters are holes one by one
Street corner, where gazes intersect
The human heart opens the mouth of a giant beast
Battlefield, Parliament, Screen
Every fragment is screaming
Someone is using tired fingers,
Sewing stitch by stitch
My palm is already covered in bloodstains
The person standing on this ruins
Who isn’t a piece of rag?
Continue tearing
Until everyone becomes tattered
Until there are no more seams to mend
(English translation: Cao Shui )
lking towards Flower Mountain (Suite)
—Flower Mountain (Huashan) is located in Ningming County, Guangxi Province along Mingjiang River. Around 1500 rough-edged human figures are painted on a cliff face in cinnabar, bursting with raw vitality. The largest of the figures is three meters tall, and the shortest is around 30 centimeters. The figures are spread over an area 40-50 meters high by 170-180 meters wide. This spot is widely thought to be the cultural fountainhead of the Zhuang Minority.
Hey-yo he-yo—
I am a paean in blood I am a tribute to fire
From the tip of a boar’s tusk I came
From a pheasant’s fluffed-up feathers I came
From strange power of bone ornaments I came
Having snuffed out the ravenous glow in a wolf’s eyes I came
Having faced down the flaming stripes on a tiger’s brow I came
From a straight arrow and a stout bow I came here
Stepping over death agonies of my prey
Hey-yo blood hey-yo fire
Hey-yo fierce beauty
With sword raised beating a drum to a gong’s beat I came
—Ni-lo!
…
From nodding ears of millet I came
From corn tassels lit up by sunlight I came
From ravines and garden strips no wider than a conical hat
To the whiz of a full-swung machete blade I came
By power of flames to clear planting grounds I came
Hey-yo blood hey-yo fire
Hey-yo for ripe, bursting beauty
With joyful songs hopping like sparrows we come dancing
A bride tosses an embroidered ball in our wake
Red-dyed eggs** smack shell-to-shell as we come
Barn-houses of spotted and yellow bamboo rise at our heels
We carefully press rice cakes in family molds
Steam from our five kinds of rice wafts downwind
We are a paean in blood We are a tribute to fire
Hey-yo blood hey-yo fire
Hey-yo for beauty of things exalted
A series of arrowheads aimed at the blood-red sun loosed
At a wild bull with eyes as red as the sun
A mountain man of Luoyue** clad in rawhide
Bellows straight from his rawhide-clad soul
His bellow is like that of a red-eyed fighting bull
Sounds of his own footsteps cheer him on
All across the wild slopes…he steps over
Moans of companions fallen in bamboo thickets
The might of his arm
Drives the shaft of his spear
Straight into a leopard’s mouth
The cliff seethes with raging blood
Wind whips past the forest trees
Past the heart’s flapping banner
Luscious smells of evening
Hang over a hearth fire
Snapping of green firewood
Shoots up sparks to join stars in the sky
Sending up tales of Old Buloto**, who fought Thunder King
And of Mother Le’s visit to heaven
And dreams of a feathered man
The embers long ago died down
Now only this timeless message
Still blazes across the cliff face
More primitive than pictographic signs
More sacred than the sun
Even the wind was massacred
Gutted moorlands final resting place
Of skulls that kissed the sword blood that drenched arrows
Corpses puddled in blood
Hoof-pounding melee now recumbent
Clanging massacre blades hacking flesh
Outright cruelty or cold torture
Rising crescendo of war gongs
Summoning bows and swords summoning rattan shields
Not despairing even when mothers wail
From ruins of established tribes
Youthful stockades sprang up
By way of more deaths barbarity led the way to civilization
Oh the maiden who sounded a drum with her severed arm
Was passed down in folk songs
Worshipped as the heroine of her people
Although cooking smoke was severed by sharp blades
Some found a riverbank where it could grow rankly
A marsh once soaked in blood
Cast off the heroic era of brass drums
Yet never once did war turn rusty
Blood in grim and vivid hues
Sinful and holy, washed over the land
Through wind-whipped waves past sails torn to pieces
Step into a canoe that hoists no sail
Track the bear wounded by an arrow its trickle of blood
Run toward the hunter who wears a quiver
Turn toward offerings of netted fish
Turn toward offerings flushed from thickets
Beauty of nakedness of yielding warmth
Pent-up blood dissipates in time whitecaps sweep away loneliness
From loftiest peaks torrents of love race down
Once tempting dilemmas fade away in time
Young hearts were ignited by an embroidered ball
1984
Tr. by Denis Mair
A Bundle of Letters
1.
“your voice comes, across distant time and space”
the left hand pressing the paper, with a heart-piercing force
facing, in an instant, many a thing that can’t be recalled
such as the tone, the intonation, pauses organic and inorganic
even your heart murmurings, strong and weak
“the incurable smells, and the body odours”
the instant pain, the person writing words, hidden in lined paper
of whom the character may let slip hearsay if not careful enough
putting the hand over the characters you had written
the heaven-and-earth sweeping feeling, nearly striking one down
the characters so energetic, with enough force to wound and kill
“the hand over them could gain energy”
so much so that I seemed to be hovering over a face or something else
the most enticing part of it was to smell it, and you could taste the sun
“the gradated tones of an oriental’s skin have touching appeal”
that damned mosquito bit the arch of my foot
“isn’t that as unbearable as licking someone’s soul?”
by accident I swallowed a chrysanthemum
so smooth and slippery soft that one “sinks” in thought and “thought” sinks
thoughts emerged on and off, like gulps of muddy water
thirsty, then quenched, feeling so happy but the throat gets stuck with mud
thirsty and quenched again, life a bitter puzzle between head and body
at the instant of entering hell, despair comes welling up like first love
no one can really bear the “blows” of happiness
“what a luxury it would be to die in happiness”
2.
the south is an empty nest
and i am a lonely bird under the eaves, detached, cold
with a multiple personality, my wings used to embrace, not to fly
wind outside, occasional rain
peddlers and hawkers are sassing each other; women blooming in their snail abodes
upon a husband’s return to his pretty little woman, the master of the household
has changed
nietzsche is dead; smell it; it smells foul!
gauguin said what he wanted to establish was the right to do whatever he wanted
split a feather for me; I am turning vulgar but no one cares
reading? writing? spending days fragmentarily like chickens and dogs
like mud at the bottom of the lake, feeling myself dying inch by inch
“how can you pass such a night alone if you are not writing?”
many people are not as good as a bird
really, what is up with these odd birds?
“don’t listen to my rubbish! My mood is getting the better of me”
—just plain moody, and for no reason at all
3.
however, when I read your first letter
what you said taught my soul to fly
without your written words as evidence
the devil only knows who you are and what I’m doing
I do not know you but am familiar with you although I am in no position to prove your
existence
i suspect the characters you wrote may possibly have originated before the middle
ages
the sneak attack of memory carries a dizzy sensation
at one’s weakest it is easy to return to childhood
drawing a little water curtain closed, in a small space
one, two, three, four, five, six, seven….
making stroke after stroke, drooling, being serious
time turning the other way round, like a silkworm metamorphosing
you have two braids, long and thick; you look at people in a strange way
and I was your neighbour, “I’ll call you big brother”
you always thought only you could call me so
crickets around the waist sang out a summer
entwining wisteria, coiling and coiling some more
you made me feel pure, innocent
although I can’t return there again
sadness descends mixed with unnamable desires
smoking a cigarette and imagining, again, a woman possessing all colors, scents and
tastes
who stood in front of Su Xiaoxiao’s tomb, like a renowned courtesan from some other era [1]
drawing gentlemen into encounters, sending them forth to conquer the world
acting demure, holding up one corner of her skirt, a free-wheeler if the truth be told [2]
for me such a person remains mysterious, not a threat
yet inexplicably devastating all before them
ah my, maybe neither of these fictions hit the mark
but it would be more unbearable for a man to stop imagining than for a woman
to stop looking in the mirror.
4.
maybe my body was bound by your handwriting right from the beginning
its softness and tenacity lie not in the utterance, but in the impulse to entwine
I do not know who listens to the saint’s words, who speaks unspeakably
in birdsong at dawn I hear a heart-throbbing
through a budding flower I see part of you
you are physically real in my dream but nothing when I awake
I’m no longer moved by the melody of music or the rhythm of poetry
I’m moved only by “the signifier,” moistened by lips and an open hand
burning. ascending. rosy clouds gathering, “kidnapped” by an angel
for a whole summer I have been vaulting and shimmering in your radiance
except that I am never sure whether this is an experienced event
or a desired illusion
5.
rubbish.
around me. around you.
-“so are you.” “so am I”
we are being polluted. we accept it. and we say it’s pretty good, happy
are we
separated by the sprawl of the objective world
busy, from one city to another
no real foundation, no real residence: status of the modern person.
status of human beings
an ant, always moving house but never seeing a home
a grain of rice on its forehead, picked up from no-one knows where
“I suspect I am only sleepwalking”
and now, you, woke me up, made me feel I am alive
I–at present–here and now
like an inky thief that has vomited ink all day [3]
its wrung-out gut now rinsed with water, its swollen form spread out
the longest tentacle reaching your chest, adsorbing you
I feel that I should be somewhere else
I feel that I am already somewhere else
poetical fingers are peeling the “I” that is “yours” away from daily life
body and soul are in perfect synch, bursting with vitality
enveloped in invisible dense vapor that keeps out evil and shame
an atmosphere absorbing the atmosphere…an expanse of blue, an expanse of yellow
a flow of feeling, like pain after tooth-extraction, faintly….
since then we have looked down on happiness
6.
except that I am never sure whether this is an experienced event
or a desired illusion
[1] Su Xiaoxiao: a famous Chinese courtesan in Southern Qi (479-502), whose tomb is
found in Hangzhou near West Lake.
[2] Fengliu (literally “wind-flow”) can mean dashing, gallant, fancy-free, breezy or free-wheeling
[3] Wuzei (literally inky thief) is the Chinese word for squid. –Tr.
July 24, 1995
Tr. by Ouyang Yu
